


Prelude to The Wedding: Nightwing vs. Deathstroke

by overratedantihero



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Cuddling, Dream Sequence, Early AM Conversation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulative Behavior, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Reference to Renegade, Reference to Sex Pollen, Sort Of, Unsettling, goading, reference to past sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 08:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Dick wakes up after a nightmare to find Slade in his bed and under his skin.





	Prelude to The Wedding: Nightwing vs. Deathstroke

Dick dreamt. He knew he dreamt, because he was curled in his mother’s lap, all 175 lbs of him. The safe cage of her arms and the warmth emanating from her body were offset by the voice in his ear, Bruce’s voice, reminding him, “She never knew you like this. I know you like this. I’ve trained you, and held you, and protected you, why do you go to her and not me?”

This couldn’t be right. Dick could never think that Bruce would express jealously if Dick longed for his mother; Bruce explicitly longed for his parents near constantly. But there was Bruce, standing in Dick’s peripheral, staring ahead with poorly concealed pain like that time Dick threatened to run away to live with Superman when he was ten years old.

Dick willed himself to Bruce, to relinquish the gentle rise and fall of his mother’s chest so that he could comfort and hold Bruce instead, but Dick didn’t budge.

“Selfish, selfish, selfish,” the Furies from one of Diana’s stories began to chant.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the crook of his mother’s neck. When he opened them, the tiny, athletic frame of his mother was gone, replaced by the tall bulk of a man, one who was able to wrap his arms around Dick in a way that his mother could never at this age. The soft skin of her neck was now the slick, lacquered fabric of The Cowl.

Dick curled up a little tighter against the chest that he knew was emblazoned with a bat. “Bruce,” he whined, pitifully, as if he were eight with a skinned knee again.

“Try again, little bird,” the rumbling bass of Slade’s voice mused.

Dick reared back from the embrace, but the arms cradling him tightened into vices. Now that Dick wasn’t burying his face, he could see the white beard and he could notice the taller build.

“Slade,” Dick hissed. “Bruce?” He cried out, tossing his head about, trying to catch sight of his mentor. “Bruce!”

“He’s not here, Dick,” Slade said, looking down at Dick. The cowl was suddenly pulled back, so Dick received the full force of Slade’s piercing stare. “He’s never here when you need him.”

“No,” Dick mumbled, squirming. “He is, don’t say that, you know he is-”

“When Jason died? What about when Raptor appeared? When he left you at Spyral, alone, dead to the world and hunted by those few who knew you? And, what of...” Then, Slade lowered his voice and shifted Dick in his arms so that he could tuck Dick’s head under his chin and murmur, “What of Tarantula?”

Dick awoke with a start. The details of his dream were already slipping away, but fear thrummed against his chest and tears stung his eyes. Numb for his panic, Dick inwardly went over forms in gymnastics, to ground himself.

Aerial, layout, pike, tuck. Aerial, layout, pike, tuck. Aerial, layout, pi-

Then a body shifted behind him and Dick froze.

While Dick processed, a thick arm slung around his waist and a neatly trimmed beard scratched against his neck in a way that would have been pleasant if not for Dick’s half-cocked panic.

“Kid, you sound like a hummingbird,” Slade Wilson murmured behind his ear, voice thick from sleep. Do 4-7-8 breathing for eight breaths.”

Dick wanted to argue, and to punch Slade for the startle, but he complied: inhaling and exhaling at a 4:7:8 second ratio for eight breaths. By the end of it, his nerves had calmed and he could focus enough to recognize that he was in bed at his apartment in Bludhaven, wearing only boxer briefs and with his legs tangled with Slade. Outside, the sky was a murky green/gray so it was still early morning, maybe around 4 am. Memories of the night’s affairs returned, slowly and then all at once, and then Dick groaned.

“Pollen,” Dick muttered. Slade had been guarding a transport of Ivy’s concentrated concoction, stolen from Gotham by some up and coming Gotham crime lord. Bruce had been occupied with the wedding so Dick tried to stop him instead. They’d burst the massive cannister mid-fight, thoroughly coating themselves and the rest of the hired help. Dick couldn’t remember what happened to them or the rest of the pollen, but he remembered his tryst with Slade _very_ clearly. “Slade, Slade, I’m so sorry—“

Slade’s shoulders shook, and Dick wiggled in Slade’s grip, craning his neck to scowl back at Slade. “Are you laughing?” Dick hissed.

“Yes,” Slade murmured, patting Dick’s thigh. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Grayson. We were both dosed, I fucked you, you did nothing wrong.”

Dick wiggled and twisted until he was able to turn around to face Slade. “But I asked you to,” Dick said, earnestly looking into Slade’s eye. “I took advantage of you. And I left the pollen—“ The gravity of the situation hit Dick like a bullet. “Fuck, I left the pollen! I left the pollen and— god, it was gonna go to traffickers...what if they came back for it? No, no, no, no,” Dick’s breathing started to hitch again. He sat up and wildly looked about for his Nightwing uniform.

Slade wrapped an arm around Dick’s waist and pulled him down, flush against Slade. “Stop, Dick. Focus on me. Breathe.” Slade waited until Dick started to inhale and exhale. “We were both out of our minds, kid,” Slade said slowly. “I wanted to fuck you, you wanted to get fucked. It was mutually beneficial. And don’t worry about what was left behind. Wintergreen took care of it.”

Dick paused. “He...? You were supposed to guard it though?” Dick muttered wetly. “And now you’re saying you let him get rid of it?”

Slade traced Dick’s spine with his fingertips. “No. He didn’t get rid of it. I had a higher buyer who wanted it, for the R&D department of a perfume corporation. I never intended for it to reach its destination, and the new buyer can make do with a smaller sample; all they wanted was to study the effects on pheromones. The traffickers weren’t ever going to get a hold of it. Do you hear me?”

“Oh,” Dick said, blinking. A couple of tears broke loose and rolled down his cheeks. “I, uh. Wow. Okay. That’s almost heroic of you, Slade.”

Slade rolled his eye and Dick grinned through a hiccup.

“I don’t do heroism, kid, you know that. There was a higher bidder. That’s all.”

But Dick was already nuzzling Slade and giggling against his skin. Slade scowled but obligingly stroked Dick’s hair.

“Go back to sleep, kid,” Slade muttered. You’ve had enough excitement for one night.” Dick went stiff and Slade murmured, “Kid?”

“...I’m not tired,” Dick mumbled.

Slade hmphed. “I could’ve heard your pulse from the next state over. You had a nightmare, don’t play cute.”

Dick huffed and sat up to glare at Slade. “If you knew, why did you ask?”

Slade blinked at him. “I want you to say what you need. Be explicit. I was in the military, kid, I’m no stranger to PTSD.”

“You’re being awfully sweet for a murderer,” Dick muttered. Slade barked out a laugh.

“You’re being awfully coy for someone who regularly sleeps with a murderer,” Slade leered.

Dick stuck his tongue out but lowered himself to rest his head on Slade’s chest. “Whatever.” Dick paused, chewing his lower lip. “But can we just talk or something? I don’t want to go back to sleep yet.”

“Of course, little bird,” Slade murmured, placing a firm hand on Dick’s mid-back. The pressure, which would otherwise feel restrictive, felt safe, secure. Dick took a deep breath and let himself relax. “Little bird?” Slade murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Whatever Big Bad is haunting you, I’m bigger and badder. You hear me?”

Dick wanted to smirk but he couldn’t find the energy. “What if you are the Big Bad?” Dick near whispered. “What if the Big Bad has been dead for years? What if Bruce is the Big Bad?”

Slade exhaled, long and slow. Dick didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath. “These sorts of dreams don’t work like that, kid,” Slade began. “What you see isn’t impertinent, but the trauma is rooted in emotion. It’s not what you saw, it’s the feelings that they invoked.”

At that Dick snorted. While Slade talked, Dick had reached up and began playing with Slade’s chest hair. Slade grunted when he pulled at it. “You get nightmares, Slade?”

“No,” Slade answered without hesitation. “I told you. Trauma is rooted in emotion.”

“You don’t have emotions?” Dick tilted his head to look up at the underside of Slade’s jaw.

“I have assessments,” Slade said, “and I have choices. Feelings have no place in the choices I make.”

Dick settled back down on Slade’s chest, albeit he couldn’t relax this time. “I couldn’t ever be your Renegade. I’m not like you,” Dick murmured. “I’m invested, I care.”

“No need to convince me, kid,” Slade murmured. “I knew your Renegade persona was shit. I never asked you to be me. I just hate to see raw talent wasted on the likes of the Bat. You could be lethal, under the proper hand.”

“Under your hand,” Dick corrected.

Slade reached down and squeezed Dick’s ass, promoting Dick to jump. “You like it under my hand, you just like to pine more. Let me know when Wayne gives you the attention you want; if hell freezes over, I want a warning so that I can pack a coat.”

Dick huffed, anger flushing his cheeks. “B loves me. I know he does. I’m his son.”

“Yeah?” Slade mused. “Who’d he choose to be his best man? You, his oldest, or the alien? Would you even know he was getting married if the butler hadn’t told you? He doesn’t deserve you, Dick. He doesn’t know what he has.”

Dick struck out with the quickness of a snake. In one fluid movement, he sat up and wrapped a hand around Slade’s throat.

“Shut up,” he ground out, pressing the heel of his palm against Slade’s trachea. “You don’t know anything.”

Unperturbed, Slade grinned. “See, kid? You’ve got it in you. Let me know if you ever want to learn how to channel that anger. You’d be the prettiest gun in my armory.”

Dick yanked his hand from Slade’s throat, recoiling as if struck. “I don’t want you to talk about Bruce like that. Stop,” he asserted, firmly.

Slade sighed and sat up on his elbows. “I don’t like the way he treats you, Dick. I’ll play complacent and hush about it, but don’t think I don’t notice.”

Dick glared at him, crossing his arms across his chest. Slade looked up at him, calm, for a spell.

“Tell me to leave,” Slade offered. “I’ll do it. I’ll go.”

Dick opened his mouth but then he considered facing the silence of his room alone, thought about the dream returning, and about him floating without an anchor in his own roiling anxiety. He closed his mouth. Slade smirked.

“Come to bed, Dick,” Slade murmured. “I won’t leave you alone to fend for yourself, not while you’re not feeling well. Lay down for me.”

Dick hesitated, but eventually he sunk back into the bed by Slade’s side. Once, Rose told Dick that Slade had his own language; he couldn’t just show emotion, he didn’t have the bandwidth. He had to imply it and bury it in extremism. That’s what this was, Dick decided. Slade cared. Slade blamed Bruce for Dick’s trauma. Slade wanted to protect Dick.

The cool slide of the blanket startled Dick, but when he glanced up, it was just Slade tugging it up over Dick’s shoulders. Slade who looked so gentle and so concerned.

“I don’t like what I’m capable of,” Dick whispered into Slade’s neck.

Slade strokes his head. “You don’t like what you’re capable of while afraid. I don’t want you to be afraid. None of the monsters in your closet are bigger than me.”

Dick wanted to argue. He wanted to tell Slade about Catalina and about his own anger and about all of the mistakes he made with Jason and about the looming presence of Bruce in Everything, but sleep tugged at him. The weight of Slade’s body and the warmth of the blanket sent Dick drifting.

Dick dreamt of wolves and sheep.

 

 

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